Mad World
by junkbondtrader
Summary: Depressing fic about Remus Lupin that fateful Halloween night, and the next few mornings after. Includes multiple references to the Wizard of Oz.


A/N: A depressing piece about Remus Lupin on that classic Halloween night, and the morning or so after. Flashbacks are written in _italics._ Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters/places. I took the title after listening to Gary Jules's version of the song "Mad World"

**And I find it kinda funny,  
I find it kinda sad,  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had,  
I find it hard tell you,  
I find it hard to take,  
When people run in circles,  
It's a very, very,  
Mad World.**

* * *

He watches. A somber wall of clouds draws itself to the mountains, a great black tidal wave echoing with distant thunder. A thin silver lining encases the darkening mass, as the sun begins to set behind them. The intensely blue sky contrasts starkly with the impossibly tall storm brewing. A cold breeze flows through him, and the tempest closes in, roaring on the horizon. He can't suppress a shudder. The sun falls far enough that the illuminated rim fades from the clouds. He adjusts his scarf and heads back in. 

There are shadows under his eyes that rival the weather outside. His bones are stiff, and he's queasy. The blue skies had long since been dissolved by the towering storm.

With a mournful howl, the wind picks up the moist air, and urges him back inside. He feels a fleeting sensation of something he can only describe as fate. But it passes as he steps into the darkness of his home.

Briefly, he ponders the dismal Halloween weather. The normally bustling streets are dead empty. There are no muggle children romping about in costumes. There are no cars, no stray dogs. Only the dead fall leaves, which move with the wind down the street as he closes the door.

His decrepit little house groans and creaks. The wind picks up, and the building becomes a living woodwind. The sky grows darker.

He walks into the house and strips, neatly placing his clothes in a nearby wardrobe. He locks the crooked cellar door behind him as he heads down the rotting staircase. The sensation of walking through spider web covers his bare flesh. He rubs his arms, but finds nothing. His skin is crawling, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

He wonders how secure the old house is. He has doubts about it's ability to stand against the angry bursts of wind. He's not even certain it will be able to secure a fully grown werewolf. He pushes this thought aside. The first rain grazes the roof, echoing like a soft drumbeat, then steadily growing in frequency and volume.

He imagines the rickety old house blowing over. Crushing his wolf self, until two lethal paws are all that stick out from below the rubble. Reverting back to human form at sunrise, they curl in on themselves, just like that old muggle movie his mother loved so much. He shakes the image. It disturbs him and amuses him, but mostly disturbs him. The house gives another groan, and he matches it. He feels like he's covered in fire ants. All he can do is stretch, and force himself not to scratch his body raw.

Like an invisible hand, a sharp pain hits him full force in the stomach. The pressure is enough to make him vomit, spilling what little dinner he'd managed to consume out. He doubles over, face twisted in a silent scream. By the time the noise leaves his mouth, he is grateful that _he_ is not really there to witness it.

The last image that passes through his conscious mind, is of his little shack spinning in a tornado. His friends are flying by out the window in sepia tone. They wave and smile goodbye as he departs. The storm ends, and he's in a new world. It's unbelievably different, but nonetheless, finally in color.

* * *

His chest heaves. The slow up and down motion is comforting in its rhythmic pattern. He focuses on it, directing his mind on anything but the crippling pain. His breath snags and he falls into a coughing fit. Specks of blood stain the floor. He can only hope his lungs are still fully intact. Another visit to the hospital was out of the picture. 

He pulls himself up. Back propped against the cold stone wall, his sits limp on the dusty floor of the basement. His eyes are heavy, and he lets them close knowing no one will come to rouse him. He doesn't know for sure really, but he has a strong gut feeling. With James and Lily in hiding, Peter on his secret mission, and Sirius well… he strongly doubts his friends will come and pick him off the ground this time. He thinks back to earlier events. His memories come in flashes without rhyme or reason.

_ The last death eater raid. Getting a black ministry owl seventh year informing him of his parent's death. Getting kicked out of the hospital by the healers when Harry was born. Watching Lily dance gracefully at her wedding. The ominous note on his desk written in blood…_

His thoughts always fall back to that damned letter. He knew he should have just thrown it out without opening it….

* * *

_ He grabs the letter off his desk. He's confused. No one's around, and his flat is dark. He peels the nondescript seal off the envelope, and slips the letter out. Delicate handwriting covers the page in a familiar red. He reads the first sentence and his heart stops. He presses on. **They've been watching him. They want him. They want his friends. They will not be refused**. The ink falls off the page. He trembles as he throws the letter down in disgust. The words are written in blood. And now his hands are covered in blood. He doesn't know what to do… he keeps quiet. He washes his hands. He locks his doors. He decides that his friends would be at more risk if he told them. So he doesn't. _

* * *

There were more letters, he recalls, as he sits in the darkness. Sometimes they contained disturbing personal details about his life, descriptive accounts of his parent's murders. Sometimes they were threatening. Sometimes they tried to be alluring. But they were always, above all, patronizing. To them, he was like a dog they could lure with food, or threaten to beat. But eventually they _would_ make him submit. . 

He was afraid to leave his home. He was afraid to stay at home. His signed up for Order missions in the most remote places. He didn't tell anyone where he was going, and didn't let others tell him about their missions. It was safer for them, he had thought, if he distanced himself. **_They_** wanted him. He wouldn't let his friends get dragged into it, or be used as tools against him. He wasn't important enough.

A few weeks later, there was a death eater raid, and the Order suffered heavy casualties. Then, two days later, there was a spy among the marauders.

* * *

_Peter holds up a crisp envelope. Sirius snatches it from his hands angrily, tearing the letter out. He reads the two words out loud, voice raising in pitch but lowering in volume. _

_"Good job." _

_ He sounds hysterical. There is a cold silence. The words drip off the page, and the blood droplets congeal on the floor. It occurs to Remus that he's never even seen that letter before. That Peter had no way of finding it in his dresser, because he'd specifically taken extra precaution to lock the doors. That he'd always burned the blank parchments the instant the ink ran off. That Peter couldn't have read the letter without the words disappearing right after. _

_All of these thoughts speed away quickly as he feels Sirius's fist collide with his face. There is commotion. James is holding the struggling Sirius back, yelling at him. Peter watches impassively from the couch. _

_ He's been framed. Two simple words and suddenly he's the spy. He's betrayed them. He can't explain himself, because he can't find the words. Sirius is screaming accusations. **Remus has been too distant, Remus has disappeared for long periods of time, Remus can't be trusted, Remus is a dark creature… **_

_ The last one cuts deep. Sirius demands to know if there were other letters. And Remus can't lie. His silence is enough, for them at least. They won't let him speak. James is trying to conceal his amazement, and his shock. Sirius is giving him the same deadly glare he always gave Snape. _

_Hatred burns in his eyes as he looks at his former friend in disgust. The same disgust a rich pure-blood heir might look at a poor half-blooded werewolf. Peter looks as if he might smile any moment. But Peter giggles when he's terrified, so Remus does not think much of this. He walks outside. His eyes are burning, and he feels like screaming his throat raw, just to alleviate that choking sensation.. _

_ They stare at him through the window. No one says goodbye as he lifts his wand to apparate. Finally, words croak out from deep inside him coming out in a harsh whisper. Like an echo that had been ricocheting through his body, taking its sweet time to finally come out, _

_ "I would die for you." _

_ There is a crack, and he's gone._

* * *

It hurts him now, as he thinks about it. More than the external wounds that throb and sting his skin. Tears come to his eyes, but he pushes them back. He wonders if that was their plan, the Death Eaters. Fill him with paranoia, make him look suspicious, and then plant the right evidence. He doesn't think so though. He thinks they have more devious things to do then to break up a friendship. Granted, the only friendship he's ever had. 

He has never felt more alone as he sits there. He fades in and out, through those first restless phases of sleep. Falling into blissful darkness.

* * *

The next morning, he's recuperated enough to drag himself upstairs. His wand is taped down in a corner where the door ends and the wall begins. He pulls it off, and removes the charms. There is a soft click and the door swings open. He has to shield his eyes. 

The storm has cleared, and the small kitchen is illuminated with the lazy golden light of late morning. Too tired to stand, he drags a chair over to the counter and washes himself. Streaks of watery blood flow into the sink and down the drain, like a miniature whirlpool. Turning off the tap, he gazes out the window, through the small panes of glass framed in brown dust. The world is unnaturally cheerful.

The muggle children, strangely absent Halloween night prance around, laughing in the streets. The adults watch, wearing huge witless grins. A teenaged girl spins, light fall skirt flying up in the soft breeze. They act as if they haven't seen sun in years.

He doesn't bother to question this. It is beautiful day. It's as if the storm had blown away all of the smog and grime from the air. He grabs the previous day's paper from the windowsill, briefly contemplating the cost of the pre-paid owl post. He reads the glaring headline, and drops the prophet into the sink. The parchment sops up red tinged water and he hurries to pull it out.

_Voldemort Gone! _

The smaller title reads:

_Infant Harry Potter Survivor and Savior? _

His vision darkens in black spots. He's dizzy by the first paragraph, and falling out of his chair by the second. A nondescript grey owl taps on the window, drilling into his mind. He fiercely grabs the current paper, and the bird screeches and writhes until its free. He prays for a headline retracting the last issue. A notification of some wide scale misprint, and an apology for any inconvenience it may have caused. The paper falls in the same bloody sink.

_Potters' Friend Black Traitor _

The smaller title below reads…..

_Heroic Friend Pettigrew Mourned_

He can't read the article. He knows they're all dead. He knows he's lost everyone. Out the window, more people have joined the girl dancing in the street. He can hear their laughter. Every aspect of the beautiful day and the exuberant people mocks him.

He can't understand why he was the _last to know_. Why no one from the order thought it_ necessary to inform him_.

His hand slips off the counter. Thin fingers trail four red lines from the ceramic sink, down the wooden counter. He's blacking out. And all he can think of is how badly he wants to be back in Kansas. His breath is harsh. And he starts to fade. He mouths the words as they repeat through his brain. _There's no place like home… there's no place like home… there's no place like home. _


End file.
